


Yellow Papers

by Cowbelle



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, cracky and ooc but whatever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-07
Updated: 2012-12-07
Packaged: 2017-11-20 12:58:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/585672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cowbelle/pseuds/Cowbelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is away on a case, John is getting restless. Mycroft helps Sherlock be romantic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yellow Papers

**Author's Note:**

> aah so this was first posted on fanfiction.net but I'm moving all my stuff over here so yes

John sighed and tossed his book aside, letting it join the seven others that had suffered the same fate that morning. He was just so  _bored._ And yes, he was well aware of how like his flatmate-stroke-boyfriend he sounded thank you very much. Bloody Sherlock, off on another one of his sodding cases, leaving him for the fifth time that year because "you're too short/cute/conspicuous/'precious'". Honestly since they'd gotten together Sherlock was letting John come along less and less.

John shook himself, and realised how long it had been since he'd vacated the sofa for more time than an average toilet break. He had to get out.

Sherlock felt like he'd been in Kansas for a decade at the very least, although the date on his phone helpfully reminded him that it was closer to a week. Where was John when all you wanted was a shag to pass the time? Oh yes, that's right, home. Where Sherlock had left him. This case had led him from the sewers of London to a desolate barn in the middle of nowhere, he'd left Baker Street late on Monday night, with a hurried "I love you" to John and a swirl of his coat as he swept out of the flat in his usual manner.

Truth is, Sherlock hadn't let John come along because he genuinely had no idea if he was going to make it back to London in anything but a body bag.

His phone vibrated in his pocket, scowling he rolled onto his back so he could get at it. It could only be one person, having told John that texting him when he was on a case would result in one of them sleeping on the sofa for a month, and it certainly wasn't going to be him.

_He's out. –MH_

Sherlock felt his face stretch into something resembling a smile for the first time all week. Partially because he knew that Mycroft must have gotten another root canal, but also because it was time to make John happy. He hoped.

_It's show time. –SH_

John arrived back at the flat in an even more murderous frame of mind than when he left, he glared at the dull, consulting detective-less room with such fury radiating from every pore that any bystander (or nosy git, hello Mycroft!) would have turned and fled. Chucking his keys in the direction of the coffee table, and was wrestling with the zip of his jacket when he noticed a flash of yellow tucked behind the mirror, contrasting harshly with the stark black and white wallpaper. He stalked over to it, swearing that he was going to snap Mycroft's neck the next time he was 'kidnapped'.

Catching the piece of paper between his fingers, he briefly considered tearing it into a thousand tiny pieces before he noticed Sherlock's elegant flowing script.

_Hello John,_

_If you're reading this, which I suppose you must be, then it appears I'm going to have to miss our anniversary. God knows I don't generally care about such trivial nonsense, but you do, so I do. Honestly John, for me, everyday with you is a special day, but nonetheless, to apologise…well, you'll see. Just don't kill Mycroft until I get back, promise?_

_Always yours,_

_Sherlock._

John smiled and tucked the note into his pocket before firing off a text.

_I've been told not to kill you. Count yourself lucky. –JW_

* * *

John awoke the next morning, not on the sofa, which was a first for that week, but in his bed. He blinked awake, rolling over to see if Sherlock was within kissing distance. Upon seeing the other side of the bed empty and clearly not slept on, he remembered where Sherlock was, and Kansas isn't within kissing distance, not for John anyway.

Pouting, he rolled back over to glare at the ceiling with as much of the full force of a John Watson rage as he could manage at seven in the morning. He was so cross that it took him a while to notice a second slip of paper tucked into the light fitting. That hadn't been there last night. Had it? John didn't know and he found it hard to care as he used the bed as a makeshift trampoline in an effort to grab the note.

After a few minutes of vigourous jumping, some pretty magnificent bruises to his forehead, and some muffled swearing, John managed to grab the note and he sat down eagerly to read it.

John thought that he must have been going mad, because he will swear to this day that he heard Sherlock's deep voice as he read.

_John,_

_Once again I am sorry, yet I can't help but laugh at the idea of you, my compact doctor, jumping up and down on our bed as you try to catch this letter. I assume you've succeeded, well done love._

John snorted here, Sherlock really was an arrogant prat, why did John love him again?

_But I digress, you know I love you John, more than anything or anyone. I don't know what I've done to deserve you John, but I'd do it for every single day of my life and every day after I die if I had to._

Huh. Oh yeah, that's why.

_So, today, you brave little soldier you, I'd like to send you on a little journey. Not a long one, not a dangerous and arduous one, and every step of the way, I promise to remind you how much I love you, but more importantly, why._

_Now, if you would take a trip on down to the kitchen that would be perfect._

_S._

John chuckled, a journey, eh? Sherlock sure did know how to woo a man, or how to woo a John Watson at least. He dragged himself off the bed, pausing momentarily to pull on his jeans, and headed downstairs.

A third note was stuck into the doorframe, lower down this time.

_Good boy. Now where shouldn't I keep the thumbs again?_

John smirked, they'd had this discussion just days before he'd left.

"No Sherlock! I don't care. Thumbs. Fridges. In no way are the two ever to mix again. Understood?"

"But John I sterilis—"

"Don't 'but John' me. Are we clear?"

Sherlock hadn't answered; he'd merely flounced over to the sofa and flopped onto it. John took the light violin music that drifted up the stairs later that night, and the warmth that came with a consulting detective curling himself around you at three am as a "Yes John, yes it is understood. I'm sorry and I love you by the way."

John stepped over to the fridge find a small box where Sherlock had left the thumbs, with a sheet of paper on the top.

_Reason I love John Watson #1._

_He tells me when I've stepped out of line. Not the way Mycroft does it, with a patronising smile and a twirl of his umbrella, quite honestly I don't think John has it in him. Not like Anderson or Donovan, with a twisted sneer and a short and sweet "freak", but gently and simply. Now is as good a time as any to admit that I require your guidance John, an awful lot of the time, and you give it to me with no strings attached. Although I'm not afraid to say that I often attach strings anyway, not that you seem to mind when I have my way with you. Also, I know John is fond of croissants at breakfast._

John smiled, and opened the box. It was empty but for a ten-pound note folded elegantly into the shape of a swan, and almost predictably a slip of yellow paper.

_I said a journey didn't I? You know where to go._

* * *

John didn't know what he'd been expecting, Sherlock had never been one to make things easy, but after a moment he found that, yes, he did know where to go. The fancy looking logo on the box, a gold baguette and some curly writing embossed onto a foresty green, carried a name that after a quick Google search, lead him to a rather gorgeous little bakery just off Shaftesbury Avenue.

It was that sort of bakery that John secretly loved, the sort that called itself une pâtisserie no matter how far from the sometimes sun drenched streets of Paris it was. With wooden tables and stripey umbrellas out front, and pretty girls drinking coffee and discussing fine literature. The sort that his old army mates would've called snobby, though some of them might have even stretched to pretentious, these were men who thought that Gregg's was fine dining and in the desert it often did look that way.

John stepped inside, smiling at the little bell that tinkled over the door as it opened and closed. A large man came running out of a back room.

"Ah bonjour monsieur!"

John smelt a challenge arising, would his schoolboy French hold up?

"I…ah bonjour?"

"Monsieur, est-ce que vous vous appellez John?"

"John Watson, oui. C'est moi."

"Ah bon, j'ai votre croissant ici."

"Oh uh merci?"

John waved the tenner at the man behind the counter, feeling rather foolish, and more than a little out of his depth. Had he really forgotten that much?

"Ah non monsieur, C'est gratuit."

John took the pastry and went to sit in the rare October sunlight, he listened to the ladies around him discuss the deeper meanings of Alice in Wonderland on one side, and the latest issue of Heat on the other. He had no idea what Sherlock had left him money for, nor why he was doing this. Oh wait, an 'apology', that's right. He felt remarkably peaceful for a man who had no idea where his nutter of a boyfriend was going to send him next.

A different man from before ran out.

"Monsieur, this is for you, from your petit ami."

John took the almost expected piece of yellow paper from the man and smiled.

"Cheers."

The man nodded politely and left John to finish his food and read Sherlock's latest note.

_Reason I love John Watson #2._

_His love for inane television. Having the mindless background noise is often good for brainwork, not something I knew until him. Also, it relaxes him, I don't like seeing him so tense all the time, he needs the release that only Britain's Got Talent can provide._

_Hello John, I trust you enjoyed your breakfast, you're going to need your energy today my love. Remember the corner where you and Mike met when you returned to London? I should hope you do, because my homeless network certainly does._

_S._

John scrubbed a hand over his face, of course he remembered the corner, like it was yesterday, throwing back the last of his croissant he waved a halfhearted goodbye to the men sitting inside and set off.

* * *

Around this time, Sherlock was chasing a rapist through the darkened streets of Shanghai. The bastard had fled the USA and Sherlock had swiftly boarded the plane that Mycroft had somehow had ready and waiting.

He pounded through the narrow streets, turning to grin at the short, familiar man huffing and panting behind him before remembering that his John was home and safe. It just wasn't as fun without him. His only consolation was that it would be over soon. Either he'd have a bullet in his brain or the criminal would be caught and Sherlock would be back in London in time for tea. Tea. That wasn't something he'd had in a few days. John was the only one who made it right. Sherlock frowned and shook his head, now was not the time or the place to be getting sentimental.

The man stumbled; Sherlock's triumphant grin was the last thing he saw as a free man. Sherlock was going home. It was all going according to his admittedly very loose plan.

Grinning, he texted Mycroft again.

_Implement Plan Romeo. –SH._

* * *

As John got off the tube at the stop he felt someone's eyes on his back. He spun around to see a very strange looking man. He had a fez perched precariously on top of some floppy brown hair, a bowtie set just slightly askew under his frankly massive chin, and a tweed blazer of the sort an elderly professor would consider the height of fashion hung off his skinny frame. He certainly didn't  _look_ homeless. Eccentric? Yes. Poor/Unemployed/Sleeping rough? No, definitely not. This couldn't be the man. Could it?

"Hallo," he said with rather too much enthusiasm, "are you John? I'm also John…sometimes. The rest of the time I'm The Doctor, rather like you but you're  _a_ doctor, not The Doctor. Anyway, Sherly sent me to give you this. What day is it? Tuesday? Brilliant, I got it right. So here you are, it was lovely to see you again John. I must dash, there's been an incident with some otters."

John was speechless. He took the mustard coloured envelope the man was holding out to him. Before he could question anything the man had said, he'd almost skipped over to a tall red headed woman and a man with quite a nose and was speaking to them animatedly. John caught a few words about New Ancient Rome and the year four hundred thousand. Well that explained it. The man was off his head, bonkers. Or more than a bit pissed. John shook his head with a chuckle and opened the envelope.

A small key with a numbered rubber wrist strap fell out, along with, yep you guessed it, a sheet of yellow paper!

_Reason I love John Watson #3._

_His love for that stripy jumper. I could say more on the topic, but I won't. It's cute. That's all._

_Hello love,_

_It would appear you've met The Doctor. Yes, before you ask, he's completely insane. He is indeed also homeless, depending on your definition of the word._

_Your next destination should be more than obvious from the contents of this envelope._

_S._

John looked at the key; it was numbered, 221, and worn and faded strap reminded him of the sort you get at the swimming p— Oh Sherlock.

* * *

 

John inhaled deeply, enjoying the faint smell of chlorine. He went over to the front desk and asked where he could buy a pair of trunks. Since he was here he may as well go for a splash.

"Well sir, you can buy a pair here, or there's a department shop around the corner if you want more of a choice." The girl behind the desk had told him.

John paid for some cheap, regulation trunks and the entry fee.

"That'll be nine pounds ninety please sir."

John chuckled, that was what the cash had been for. He thanked the woman and carried on into the changing rooms. Once he was dressed in his admittedly rather too tight Speedos he found locker 221 and clicked it open. John ignored the clatter of the pound coin Sherlock must have used, grabbed the letter while simultaneously shoving his clothes and shoes in its place.

_Reason I love John Watson #4._

_He's so very confident with his body, so I know he doesn't mind that his trunks are too tight, and I know he'll take a photograph for me if I ask nicely, which I plan on doing._

John giggled in an honestly very manly manner and decided to save the rest of the letter for later, it was time for a swim.

John plunged into the water, it had been a while since he'd done this. He decided to swim a few lengths, and after carving damn near effortlessly up and down the pool a few times he grabbed his towel from the bench and returned to the changing rooms. Smiling, he picked up the yellow paper again.

_Hello John,_

_I think it's time for you to go home, my love. Big day tomorrow. But before you do, if you wouldn't mind taking a photo of yourself right now, that would be lovely. And yes, I give you permission to text it to me._

_S._

John padded over to the mirror clutching his phone. Glancing around to make sure he didn't include anyone else in the shot, he did the teenage girl and snapped a mirror photo. He briefly considered duck facing but he didn't think that Sherlock would understand.

* * *

Sherlock was getting restless, apparently it was a longer flight that he'd thought from Shanghai to London. His phone bleeped in his pocket, he smirked, opening a text from John.

_Perv. J. xx_

Sherlock immediately set the attached photo as his phone's background. Oh John was going to hate that, but there was something about the sculpted features and the surprisingly well-defined muscles of John's chest that kept Sherlock from caring too much. He sat back with a small grin turning up the corners of his mouth, and tried to relax. Goddamn it he was nervous. He quickly texted Mycroft to make sure everything was set.

_Are we ready? –SH_

The reply came almost instantly.

_Yes. Are you sure about this, dear brother? –MH_

Sherlock scowled but didn't grace his brother with a reply, of course he was sure.

* * *

John stepped out into the cold night air, shivering at the way the icy wind whipped his still damp hair into undignified shapes. He decided to forget the tube, and quickly hailed a cab, wanting to get home as soon as possible. As he climbed into the back seat of the taxi he almost groaned at the warmth before giving the cabbie his address. Honestly, with Sherlock, he didn't know how he wasn't terrified every time he got into the back of anything driven by a stranger.

When John got home he found himself too tired to climb the stairs to his room, and just flopped onto the sofa face first. He was asleep almost instantly, and it would be a cliché to say that he was dreaming of what the morning would hold, what this "big day" was, so I won't. I'll tell you the truth. He dreamt of fish with deep voices and scales that curled up like hair around their eyes. 

When John awoke the next morning he cursed himself for voluntarily crashing on the sofa. As usual he woke up grumpy, with a crick in his neck and a pounding headache. Damn him.

* * *

At that very moment Sherlock was hiding out at the morgue, he'd arrived back in the small hours of the morning, and although the desire to see John was close to overwhelming, it would ruin his plan. So no. He'd turned his mind to a less stomach turning matter, that being the decomposition of various animals' livers. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, how long was this going to take?

* * *

John, who had managed to doze off again was jerked back into real life with a sharp knock on the door. He yawned and walked over to the door.

"'Lo?" He said groggily, before noticing that whoever had been there was gone, just leaving a small buttercup coloured envelope behind. John took it back into the flat and opened it.

Inside was a letter, and a gift certificate to a classy looking tailors in west London, after that came a print out of the photo John had sent Sherlock the night before captioned "You looked stunning, love." John smiled and turned his attention to the letter.

_Reason I Love John Watson #5._

_His whole body. Just every part of it, from his scar to the smile that lit up my world. His nose is cute, his hair is lovely, and his arse is rather nice too. It's a body that has been through an obscene amount of trauma and pain, and yet is more soft and loving than some of the most sheltered people I have ever known._

_Hello John,_

_I trust you slept well, you're going to want to keep that gift certificate for later, but for now, Angelo is expecting you._

_S._

John went to his room, pulled on some clean jeans and a fresh jumper and then tucked the papers into his pocket. Taking one last look around the flat for notes that he might have missed, he grabbed his coat and keys, then left the flat.

* * *

"Sherlock?" A female voice pulled Sherlock from the trance-like state he often went into. He looked up, irritated.

"What?"

Upon seeing that it was Molly his face softened, if only slightly. She was so very loyal after all, and had been invaluable during the Richard Brook conundrum.

"Nothing, it's just your phone has been ringing for the past half an hour, you hadn't noticed I don't think."

"Excellent deduction Molly, as always." He muttered pulling his phone out, ten missed calls. All Mycroft. As he was scowling down at the screen, it rang again.

"What do you want now?"

"Manners dear brother, manners," Mycroft said with a tone of slightly icy resignation, "I merely called to make sure you were ready."  
"Of course I am, I've been ready since Shanghai."  
"But are you su-"

"-Of course I'm sure, I've been sure for months. John is everything to me. I want this, and I hope he does too."

"Very well. Never thought I'd see the day. I always assumed John would do it, although you do so love to be dramatic. Good day brother, and good luck."

* * *

John entered Angelo's, and as he saw the large man grinning broadly at him, he braced himself for the usual greeting.

"John! Nice of you to drop by." Angelo walked over and clapped the man on the back, hard enough to knock the breath out of the poor doctor.

"Yeah, hi." John grimaced, wheezing slightly.

"You alright? You sound a bit ill. Sherlock said you'd be stopping by, the usual table."

John glanced over at their spot by the window to see a table laden with fruits, breads, various jams, and a steaming pot of coffee.

"Sherlock says to eat all you want, on the house, as per usual." Angelo said, before retreating to the kitchens again. John sat down, a little daunted by the sheer volume of food on the table. Almost predictably, there was a yellow note sitting on the table, leaning against the silver coffee pot, and for once, John ignored it and began to eat. Romance could wait; John hadn't eaten since yesterday's breakfast.

Once John was feeling rather full, and his jeans a little tight, he deemed it time to stop eating, and do the romance.

_Reason I Love John Watson #6._

_His love of jam. It's sweet. No pun intended, just a pleasant surprise._

_John,_

_It's time for you to buy a suit. You're going to look damn near devastating. I look forward to it._

_S._

* * *

 

Sherlock was beginning to get jumpy, in the last hour he'd dropped his pipette four times, spilled a beaker of cow urine over his Petri dishes (which actually proved to be informative), and tripped over the leg of his stool twice. He really couldn't wait much longer.

_He's in. Not long now, brother. –MH._

Sherlock smiled, the combination of seeing John again soon, and the idea of him in a fabulously fitted suit had cheered him right up.

* * *

John walked nervously into the tailors, looking around. A skinny man with a shock of red hair poked his head out of a room behind the counter.

"John Watson?"

"Yes," John said, relieved, "yes, hi." He smiled in his usual amiable fashion. The red headed man retreated into the room again.

"Mr Holmes said you were coming, gave us your measurements and told us to make you a suit," he popped back out, and gestured for John to join him, "it's just here sir."

The room had a massively high ceiling, and hundreds of rolls of fabric and suits sat on hardwood shelves. A ladder was leaning against the shelves, and John thought that this was exactly how he'd imagined Ollivander's wand room when he read Harry Potter, except with more suits and fewer wands. The man gestured to a box sitting on a low stool, which John obediently picked up.

"Do I need to try it on?" he asked, he was new to this.

"If you don't mind." The man said earnestly and directed John towards a small room, with a door just slightly raised off the ground. It was lit unflatteringly, it had a cheap stool, if John was honest, it was like any dressing room ever, he may as well have been in GAP.

John took the box into the dressing room he was pointed towards and removed the most stunning suit he had ever seen. It was dark blue, with a deep green silk lining, and once he tried it on, he found that it fit his broad shoulders perfectly. The box also held a creamy coloured shirt, also silk, and a green tie. There was a knock on the door and then a smaller box was pushed underneath. As John bent to pick it up, he heard a slight rustling coming from the pocket of his trousers. Placing the box, that he would soon find out contained a rather beautiful pair of black shoes, on the stool, John reached into his pocket to pull out (can you guess?) a yellow note(!).

_Reason I love John Watson #7._

_He's warm. It's nice to cuddle him, I never thought I'd enjoy cuddling, it's always seemed pointless. I also love John because he made me see the error of my ways there._

_Hello John,_

_Keep the suit on my love, I'm taking you out on a date, does a fancy lunch suit? No bad joke about menswear intended. Mycroft's sent over a driver._

_S._

* * *

Sherlock, knowing John was out, had gone back to 221B to change into a smarter suit. He looked around the flat and chuckled, John had fallen asleep on the sofa again. He'd taken a quick trip up to John's room, going by the faint oily smudges on the ceiling, John would have some fantastic bruises, probably yellow by now, but still tender.

"Must remember that." He muttered to no one in particular. Someone coughed, Mycroft was leaning in the doorframe, smiling gently.

"I never thought you'd do this Sherlock. I'm…" he trailed off, "I'm proud of you brother."

"Oh don't get sentimental." Sherlock scoffed, but he was smiling as he pushed past his brother.

"Time to go?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but answered anyway.

"Yes." He nodded.

"Nervous?"

"Yes."

* * *

John walked out of the dressing room, gave the man with the red hair the voucher Sherlock had left him, and walked back out into the London drizzle. If he'd been worried about the weather ruining his suit or shoes, he needn't have been. A sleek black car pulled up within seconds, a man in white gloves and an impressive hat opened the door, and John was ushered into the warm and the dry. Once the door was safely shut, John noticed Anthea sitting in the passenger sear, he was briefly reminded of the time he hit on her, before the car pulled away from the pavement and smoothly navigated the traffic that comes with London on a rainy day.

* * *

Sherlock was having much the same experience a few miles away, but with less Anthea, more nerves, and more annoying older brother to deal with.

Sherlock arrived at the restaurant just seconds after John. He dashed up to his boyfriend after exchanging a few words with Mycroft and cursing the traffic.

* * *

"Stick to the plan." Sherlock had muttered at his brother.

"Of course, I only wish Mummy were-" and that was as far as his older brother had managed to get before his voice had cracked and he'd pulled Sherlock into a tight hug. Sherlock awkwardly patted Mycroft's back, he wasn't used to having someone taller than he was cling to him like this.

"Mycroft, a little decorum. Hold it together." Sherlock sniffed, before leaving his brother in the car.

* * *

When John saw Sherlock running towards him, his face stretched into a grin so massive he thought he might break. Sherlock looked absolutely perfect, and he was returning John's smile with the same enthusiasm and oh. John had missed the hugging. He remembered as much when the gangly man before him had swept him into his arms, and rested his chin on John's hair.

"Hello, John."

The voice too, John had missed that.

"You're back sooner than I thought," He murmured into the taller man's shoulder, "you said you were going to miss today."

"Well John, savour this, but I was mistaken. Shall we?" Sherlock took John's arm and guided him into the restaurant. "I was right though." Sherlock said after a moment.

"Oh?" John questioned playfully, "Right about what?"

"You do look utterly devastating in that suit."

John hit him lightly in the arm.

"Shut up."

"Not good?"

"No Sherlock," John sighed, "very good. You're perfect, you know that?"

Sherlock was perplexed, John had called him any number of unflattering things, both before and after the night they kissed. It was usually after or during some kind of argument though, so it could easily have been a heat of the moment sort of thing. Sherlock smiled softly and dropped a light kiss on John's cheek.

"I missed you." John said after they'd taken their seats.

"And I you." Sherlock had replied quietly.

The waiter came over and deposited a couple of menus on the table, but neither man noticed. They were too deep in Sherlock's recount of the case, and in the joy of being back with the other. After an hour, they still hadn't ordered, and the waiter came over to break up the discussion, they were losing business because of these bloody lovebirds.

"Excuse me sir, but I really must take your order."

"Oh you must be new! Of course, tell the chef that we'll both have the Mycroft Holmes' usual, twice please." Sherlock had said politely.

The waiter looked confused, but when he relayed the discussion to his boss, it seemed that this Mycroft Holmes was a regular here.

After the exchange with the waiter, Sherlock had turned his attention back to John who was looking at him oddly.

"Alright," John said after a moment, "Out with it."

"Out with what?" Sherlock said, although he knew very well what.

"You've been too polite. What are you up to?"

"I…okay." Sherlock braced for the worst, it was time, "John Hamish Watson, I love you more than anything, more than anyone ever could. I never feel like enough for you, I don't know what I did to be so bloody lucky," Oh hell, he was tearing up, a swift look to John confirmed that the war toughened army doctor was doing the same, "John, would you do me the honour of signing the papers that Mycroft is about to bring in so I can proudly call myself Sherlock Watson-Holmes?" Sherlock pulled a ring out of his pocket and looked nervously at John.

All John saw in Sherlock was fear, from the moment he'd question the man's good behaviour to the moment he'd finished his speech, and it broke his heart. Sherlock was scared. Scared of him, a short man with a stiff shoulder and a slow mind. That fear was replaced instantly with utmost joy when John's eyes welled up with tears, he took Sherlock's face in his hands and said with minimal voice cracking, "Yes."

Sherlock's mind flooded with relief, washing out any doubt or fear that he might be rejected. There was very little danger of that if he was truly honest with himself, John loved him, and told him so more or less six point three times a day. Sherlock was John's. John was his. Forever.

As John wiped away the stray tears that had overflowed from his eyes, Sherlock leapt up, let out a cry of absolute, raw ecstasy, and pulled John in for a kiss. It was then that Mycroft arrived with the papers.

"Cockblock." John muttered, just loud enough for Sherlock to hear, no louder. John took one look at the forms Mycroft had handed him and giggled.

"What?" Sherlock said teasingly, again, he knew very well what.

"Yellow," Was all John could say, the forms were light yellow, "you planned that didn't you?"  
"I…may have had a say in it, yes." Sherlock waved a hand, it was unimportant right now.

"I love you Sherlock bloody Holmes, and God help me, I always will."

John kissed Sherlock full on the mouth, Sherlock smiled but pulled away.

"Sign, John! Now!"

"Alright!" John laughed and took the pen Mycroft was holding out.

"Now you Sherlock." Mycroft spoke for the first time, knowing that if he said much more than was necessary he'd probably fall to pieces.

"Keep it together brother." Sherlock smiled as he signed. He then smoothly tossed the pen down and grabbed John by the lapels of his suit jacket, kissing him deeply. John placed one hand on the small of Sherlock's back, and the other entwined itself in his dark curls.

"John, may I offer my most sincere congratulations."

"Oh, thanks." John said, pulling away momentarily.

"And I think I shall take my leave, you two have fun." Mycroft said with a wink, yes, a  _wink._ He then sauntered away, twirling his umbrella and chuckling.

"I didn't know he could do that." John murmured as they paid.

"Oh, Mycroft can do whatever he puts his mind to, what in particular though?"

"Wink."

Sherlock chuckled, and took John by the hand. The pair smiled warmly at each other.

"Let's go home."

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
